Blood and Bones
by You Are Airborne
Summary: "He dabs sweat off of his forehead with a small handkerchief he keeps in his pocket. 'I'm really, really fine.' But his words are slurring, just like they did earlier when he was just waking, and fuzzy spots are swimming in his vision." Sick!Kurt fic.
1. Chapter 1

**…I have terrible writer's block for _Witness_. I have like, two pages tops written for the next chapter. It's very sad.**

**I don't remember when exactly I started writing this one, but it was probably between AVGC and the Superbowl episode. So, just… It takes place between AVGC and Silly Love Songs. Let's just say that. It is winter still, and I did alter it after BIOTA so that the Hudson-Hummels have, by this time, moved into their new house. However, I said _screw it _and Kurt is boarding at Dalton. Also, this fic wipes out all canon from SLS on.**

**I have about 27 pages in MS Word written already, so I'm thinking an update every 3 to 4 days.**

**Aaaaand I will probably be taking this in a Klaine direction, because they're so damn adorable. But it's definitely not the main focus.**

**Title: Blood and Bones**

**Author: You Are Airborne**

**Summary: "He dabs sweat off of his forehead with a small handkerchief he keeps in his pocket. 'I'm really, really fine.' But his words are slurring, just like they did earlier when he was just waking, and fuzzy spots are swimming in his vision." Sick!Kurt fic. Possible Klaine.**

**Rating: T (for many future swears)**

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><p>Kurt hasn't been feeling well lately.<p>

He sits on the edge of the bed in his room at Dalton, his body aching and fatigue flooding his limbs, and kicks off his shoes. The school day has been long and painful, and he has rehearsal in two hours, and he really doesn't want to go. But he already feels like the Warblers don't like him, like maybe they're looking for a reason to get rid of him, and he'll be damned if he's going to give them that reason.

He just needs a nice, refreshing, twenty-minute power nap and he'll be ready to go. He sighs and lays back on the bed, not bothering to even remove his tie, and falls asleep almost instantly.

An hour and forty minutes later, he is still deeply asleep, and his phone rings. It isn't until after the call has gone to voicemail and the phone begins to ring again that Kurt stirs. After a few hazy, confused moments, he manages to answer it before the call ends again.

"Hello?" His voice is slurred and syrupy, but he is still too tired to bring himself to care.

"Hey, Kurt. I left my Warblers music in your room last night and I don't have time to swing by and get it before rehearsal. Could you make sure you bring it?" asks Blaine in his gorgeous tenor into his ear.

Then it dawns on him that he has slept a completely undetermined amount of time and he has no idea how long he has to return himself to a presentable state before rehearsal.

"Uh… What time is it?" And his capacity for being concerned about how ineloquent he sounds is coming back a little bit, even though he still feels strangely muddled and heavy.

Blaine laughs quietly. "It's four-forty. Did you fall asleep?"

"Yes. I'll be at rehearsal with your folder. On time," he assures.

"Thank you." He sounds wonderfully genuine, and it makes Kurt smile even through the trepidation he's feeling. The extra-long nap hasn't helped; it has, in fact, made everything worse, and he really isn't sure how he's going to be able to deal with glee club tonight.

He reminds himself firmly that he has no choice and busies himself getting ready for rehearsal.

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><p>Kurt almost feels better when Blaine reaches for his folder and their fingers brush together, and Blaine is looking at him with the most charming smile. Almost. Unfortunately, even the intense, heady rush of attraction he feels isn't enough to counteract the general feeling of illness in his entire person.<p>

About halfway into rehearsal, the simple choreography of "Rhythm of Love" and the controlled breathing that singing in general entails has him completely wiped out—he feels odd, _gelatinous _and foggy. He is determined not to show it (or at least not to pass out), but he is less aware of himself than normal and his best efforts are in vain.

"Kurt, are you okay?"

"I'm fine." He dabs sweat off of his forehead with a small handkerchief he keeps in his pocket. "I'm really, really fine." But his words are slurring, just like they did earlier when he was just waking, and fuzzy spots are swimming in his vision. A couple of the boys support him by the elbow and under his shoulders and drag him over to a chair. He leans forward over his knees exhaustedly, closing his eyes.

"Hey. What's going on?" Blaine asks, very close to his head, and puts a soothing hand on his back. Kurt sits up, keeping his eyes shut.

"Tired," he breathes. Then, as an afterthought, "I'm not going to pass out."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, really," he tries to say, but his words are unintelligible at this point, and his body just sort of tips forward as his consciousness begins to fade out.

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><p>Kurt is not feeling much better when his dad arrives an hour and forty-five minutes later, but at least he can stay conscious. His skin is clammy and grey and he's sitting in the common room with Blaine, holding a wet washcloth against his forehead.<p>

"Hey, buddy, how are you feeling?" Burt asks, and Kurt responds with an exasperated noise.

"I'm perfectly fine, Dad," he says, trying to sound haughty as usual and failing miserably.

Sounding almost indignant, Blaine interjects, "You are _not_. You look like you're going to pass out again any second."

"_Thank you_ for your input," Kurt growls, even though he knows his friend is right. He _feels _like he's going to pass out again any second.

"Let's get you home," says Burt gently, leaning over so he can help his son to his feet.

"I'm fine," Kurt protests weakly, otherwise accepting the assistance. He smiles softly at Blaine and waves, effectively thanking him for helping him, for staying with him after he woke up.

Blaine returns the favor with a silly grin.

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><p><strong>I'm sorry that this chapter is so horrendously short. It was the best place to cut it off. Expect a new chapter in a couple of days!<strong>

**Thanks so much for reading and please review!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Well, hello there! This is chapter 2. Slightly longer than the first but not really that long at all. I'm making the chapters short because I want to ensure that I'm not going to run out of story in three chapters and then have everyone waiting until I can produce another, just-as-lengthy installment.**

**I should warn you guys: this is not just sick!Kurt, but it's like, **_**really**_**sick!Kurt. Just so you know. It's gonna be sad.**

**On that note, will someone who knows a lot about hospitals and the medical field and stuff please PM me? I have some questions for you that I hope you can answer! **

**Disclaimer because I forgot last chapter: I don't own Glee. This is very sad, but alas, I have to make do with fanfiction.**

**Enjoy!**

**EDIT 05/23: Hey everyone. I realized that Kurt was still in his basement bedroom in this chapter while he was in his upstairs room in all the others, so I fixed it! Hopefully I didn't make that mistake anywhere else...**

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><p>"Kurt, you're a little warm," Burt says, feeling his son's face as he helps him into the car. "I think you've got a fever."<p>

Kurt groans loudly, ready to be home and crawling into his covers, ready to have familiar-scented warmth surrounding him so he can just go to sleep for a few days.

"So I have a fever. It's probably just a virus, Dad, okay? Can we just go home?" He is not looking forward to the almost two-hour drive.

"Yeah, buddy, okay. Lucky it's a Friday, huh, so you can have a couple days' rest. But we're taking you to the doctor if you're still sick Monday, deal?"

Kurt settles back into the seat after buckling himself in and says, wearily, "Fine."

His dad pats him on the shoulder before moving around the hood to the driver's seat.

The ride is awkward; Burt makes many attempts to start conversation, even asking him how things are with Blaine (and unfortunately, they seem to be perpetually doomed to remain just friends) and mentioning Wicked (because he knows it's his son's favorite), but Kurt is just too tired and irritated to respond with more than one syllable. In fact, he is completely unwilling to even open his eyes. They are both highly relieved when the elder Hummel cuts the engine in the driveway.

And soon, Kurt is buried in bed surrounded by his soft, warm comforter, with the promise of some of Carole's homemade soup when he wakes up.

It makes him feel just that little bit closer to _good_, dozing like this, and being _home_. At school, at Dalton, he just always feels this pressure: to fit in, to do well, to attract only the good kind of attention. Being there is very stressful for him.

Being home, on the other hand, drains all of that tension out of his body and he can relax. And Cheesus, he's really tired lately and he _needs _to relax.

He drifts to sleep in minutes, but he can't stay there for long; it's already about seven o'clock and about a half hour later, dinner is ready.

"Kurt!"

His dad's voice breaks through his sleep and pulls him into consciousness. He whines softly, so desperate to not be awake and not have to deal with this miserable grogginess, this ache. If anything, the nap has again made things worse. He should really stop taking naps.

"Dinner's ready! Come on upstairs."

Slowly, he manages to pull his hurting body out of bed. He's still in his Dalton uniform and it's wrinkled and horrible. He peels it off, not bothering to fold it. Scrubbing a hand over his eyes, he makes his way over to his closet to find something comfortable to slip in. He doesn't have much that fits the description; he settles for a slim pair of sweatpants and a white v-neck.

He drags himself upstairs in a fog, barely aware that his hair is disheveled; he cannot possibly begin to care.

"Hey, Kurt, feeling any better?" Burt asks as the teenager slumps in his spot at the table. They look at him expectantly.

"No," he grumbles in reply. Carole pats his arm and Burt leans over to feel his forehead again. The hand feels cool and he closes his eyes, trying to enjoy the feeling as long as it lasted.

"You got a fever still, kid. Are you up to eating anything?"

Finn, always up for eating, makes an impatient noise and everyone sort of glares at him.

"Yes, I can eat," Kurt assures his father. "I'll be fine." He reaches out to start spooning green beans onto his plate and his dad makes a weird noise.

"Kurt, give me your arm," he snaps.

Shocked, Kurt withdraws his hand and it hovers somewhere over his plate. "Dad, what—?"

"Just give me your arm." Despite the harshness in his tone, he grips his son's wrist gently. "Where the hell did you get _that_?"

"Get _what_?"

There's a dark, nasty bruise above his elbow.

"Oh my god. I don't know," he murmurs.

"Damn it, Kurt, if someone at that damn school is hurting you—"

"Dad," Kurt interrupts, "no one at Dalton, or anywhere else is hurting me." He desperately searches his memory for an explanation for this purple mark on his skin. "I honestly don't know how I got it."

Ever helpful, Finn points across the table and cries, "Dude, you've got another one!"

There it is: his v-neck just barely reveals another bruise on his chest.

Carole casts a worried glance over at the elder Hummel. "Burt," she says, her voice made to be carefully pleasant, "can I talk to you in the living room for a minute?"

"Yeah," is the gruff reply.

Kurt doesn't like this sinking feeling in his stomach. It's dread—thick, cold dread dripping into his stomach like he swallowed molasses. Coupled with the general feeling of illness he's had for far, far too long, he pretty much just feels like going back to bed and going to sleep to never, never wake up.

Their parents walk into the next room and the boys fall into an awkward silence. Finn stares at Kurt, who, in his turn, stares at his hands in his lap.

"Wanna listen?" the larger teen offers. His step-brother finds this prospect juvenile, but his aversion is completely overridden by his near need to hear what Carole and Burt are talking about. He nods and they sneak over to the doorway to eavesdrop.

"Carole," Burt says, and his voice is firm, "don't say that. I don't want to hear that."

"I know, honey, and I'm sorry," she responds softly. "I'm not saying it's anything serious. I'm just worried, and it doesn't hurt to be careful."

There is a short moment of silence, in which Kurt can almost feel the tension in the house pushing against his skin, crushing his heart.

"You're right. I'll take him to the doctor first thing tomorrow morning," his dad whispers. "I just really hope it's nothing, Carole."

"Me too." She sounds so sincere, so genuinely troubled. There is only quiet for a short while, and so Kurt and Finn steal wordlessly back to their seats at the table. They settle into the chairs and say nothing, avoiding looking at each other. A few moments later, Burt and Carole come back in.

As they start dinner, Kurt finds what little appetite he had waning quickly. He can't shake this horrible feeling of foreboding in his stomach that's making him want to throw up instead of eat. There's something wrong with him—how could there not be? Carole said it might be nothing, but how could it not be something?

Everyone else tries to make conversation but it's stilted and uncomfortable. Kurt doesn't make an effort. After dinner is over Burt excuses him in a soft voice. "Oh, hey kiddo, before I forget," he says, making Kurt stop in the doorway, "I'm gonna take you to the doctor in the morning."

"Okay," the boy responds flatly.

He settles down into a cocoon of comforters and slowly twirls his phone in his hands, wondering whether he should call Blaine. He wants to, badly—he wants comfort. But he just doesn't know anything yet and he thinks it might be stupid of him to mention it.

The phone vibrates, startling him.

**From: Mercedes**

**7:57 PM**

**hey babe, I heard ur sick, finn told me. he said it was serious. u ok?**

Kurt is going to kill Finn just as soon as he has enough energy. He slowly, clumsily thumbs out a reply and sends it:

**To: Mercedes**

**7:59 PM**

**I'm just fine, mercedes. Finn's just being dramatic. **

He is almost asleep when her response comes.

**From: Mercedes**

**8:04 PM**

**Ok, boo. just take care of urself**

Instead of texting her back, Kurt searches for a different name in his contacts. His heart thumps in his chest as he stares at the screen, his thumbs poised but unsure of how to proceed. He's really unsure of whether he should be doing this in the first place; he really wants to talk to Blaine, to have that smooth voice reassure him. But he also really wants to hide out under a rock. If it's nothing, if it's just a virus like he originally predicted, if he got those bruises sleepwalking or something, he doesn't want to embarrass himself by worrying about it to everyone within earshot. And if he _is _sick, _really _sick, well then… he'd rather just keep it to himself. He doesn't want the drama and the emotion and the pity of telling people about it. The thought of it is awful.

But Blaine would want to know. Blaine stayed with him after he woke up this afternoon.

Eventually he decides to keep it neutral.

**To: Blaine**

**8:09 PM**

**My dads taking me to the doctor tomorrow.**

That's it. Simple and clean and not a big deal at all. Blaine will be expecting a doctor's visit anyway.

**From: Blaine**

**8:10 PM**

**Good. Let me know how it goes?**

Kurt stares at this message for a long time but doesn't reply because honestly, he doesn't know if he will.

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><p><strong>Danke schoen for reading and for all the lovely feedback in the form of reviews and favorites and alerts. Keep 'em coming! <strong>

**Also, all the grammar and spelling mistakes in those texts are intentional and were chosen very carefully. :) It kills my soul to write in textspeak but I wouldn't put it past Mercedes. And Kurt tries, but he gets lazy. **


	3. Chapter 3

**HEY GUYS. Um, so it's Thursday and I fully intended on having this chapter out on Monday. Something strange happened when I tried to upload the document so I kind of just shrugged and said, "Whatever," and then I forgot about it completely. Also, I REALLY didn't intend to keep you guys waiting on answers for another chapter, but there was no better place to end. SO I will definitely update sooner this time. For real. Like, tomorrow or Saturday.**

**HUGE THANKS to _Ariana-tan_ and _Rue's Mockingjay _for helping me out with some questions I had! It was a really big help. :)**

**ALSO THANKS to all of my readers, reviewers, favoriters, and alerters. I could ALWAYS do with more reviews, though, so if you're one of those people that just reads without reviewing (like me, unfortunately. sorry guys!), consider letting me know what you thought after you're finished with the chapter!**

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><p>He feels no better or worse in the morning. The appointment is for ten o'clock. He drags himself out of bed, into the shower, to the table for breakfast, and out to the car. Burt doesn't even try to converse with him on the way to the hospital, which is good, because Kurt is stuck in a haze of both sickness and gloom and wouldn't answer him anyway.<p>

"Hey kid, we're here."

His dad doesn't accompany him farther than the waiting room. When he lists his symptoms (fatigue, fever, achiness, short-windedness, bruising), the doctor starts to look less impatient behind his strained smile and a little more concerned. The doctor asks questions of him—is the aching in the joints or in his whole body?—and now that he thinks of it, the pain is kind of everywhere but it's really centered in his knees and his elbows and his neck and his ankles and his wrists. Then he conducts a brief examination and the smile disappears altogether: there are more bruises, and the doctor points of a series of tiny red spots under Kurt's skin that he didn't even notice.

"Okay," says Dr. Hadley, "we're going to take some blood for testing. You can change back into your clothes. Someone will be in to take care of that in just a minute. Would you like to go get your dad?"

He would. He doesn't do very well with needles. He pulls his outfit back on—another comfortable pairing of a t-shirt and sweatpants—and walks out into the waiting room. He's feeling rather sweaty and the odd feeling in his limbs is reminiscent of the sensation he experienced yesterday right before he passed out. Burt comes with his back to the room and holds his hands and he lays down and his blood is taken. The nurse takes four vials.

"Your face is really red, buddy," Burt says. "Are you feeling okay?"

He nods, trying not to think about the pain in the crook of his elbow and the feeling of the tourniquet tied around his bicep. The nurse announces, "Usually if they're about to pass out, they go pale."

After she leaves, the Hummels stay in the room for a few minutes as Kurt waits for the dizziness to go away.

Burt puts his arm around the shoulders of his son, who leans into him and closes his eyes, enjoying the warmth and the support as he tries to regain his strength. It doesn't work; he feels well enough to walk now, but his strength was sapped by this sickness—whatever it was—long ago and he just can't get it back.

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><p>Two days later, Kurt is feeling well enough to go back to Dalton; at least, this is what he tells his parents. He really is feeling a little better after a weekend of rest, but if he is to be honest with himself, it probably isn't a good idea to go to school. But he already has to try really hard to keep up with the lessons and he doesn't want to fall behind. He can't afford that, because then he'll never get into a good school with a good scholarship and he'll be stuck in Ohio forever. So he takes some ibuprofen in the hopes of keeping his fever to a level undetectable by prying friend and family and braves the school day.<p>

"Hey, Kurt, are you alright? You still don't look so good." Blaine pats him briskly on the back as they make their way to third-year French and Kurt grimaces, sure there will be a large bruise there later.

"I'm fine," he says in his usual breezy tone. "The doctor said it was just a virus. I'm still a little sick, but I'll be back to being perfectly healthy in absolutely no time at all."

At least he can fake it.

Blaine is taken in by his ruse, smiling widely. His fingers lace themselves through Kurt's, which makes the younger boy's heart race, even though he knows by now that it is just a friendly gesture. "Good. Are you up for rehearsal tonight? I'm sure, after what happened on Friday, Wes will let you skip."

Kurt hesitates—it would probably be better if he just didn't go, but he doesn't want all the other Warblers to think he's some sort of pansy—he doesn't want Wes to start looking at him with disdain again. He'd finally been starting to fit in.

"No, I'm going. I'll be fine."

Blaine glances at him skeptically as they walk.

"_Look_," Kurt says, injecting his voice with a little bit of sassiness. "If I need to sit down or take a break, I will. I won't let myself pass out again." He shudders a little at the thought. "Really."

Blaine makes a reluctant sort of face and says, "If you say so."

Kurt gives a decisive nod. "I do."

Later, Kurt's phone buzzes in his pocket as he and Blaine are heading to rehearsal together. He pulls the device out of his pocket. _Dad_ looks up at him from the screen. As he answers, he holds his index finger up to Blaine, who obliges with a smile.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Kurt!" Burt is trying to sound cheerful and casual, but there is undeniable strain in his voice that suggests that he is less than calm. Kurt's been unfortunate enough in life that he can now recognize all the little indicators that mean someone is about to give him bad news. This is one of those times: his stomach drops at the tone of his dad's voice.

"Hi, Dad," he responds warily, gripping the phone tighter. Blaine gives him an odd look but stays silent. "What's going on?"

"I just got off the phone with Lima Memorial. They want you to come in to talk about the results of your blood tests."

He feels sick. He badly wants to stop walking, lean against the wall, and cry, but Blaine is still there, right by his side, and Blaine can't know what's happening. So he swallows against these urges and says, as casually as possible, "Okay. When?"

"Tomorrow. I'll pick you up right after your classes are done."

"Alright." He tries to pretend they're not talking about an ominous call from the hospital, but perhaps a visit home for a birthday or to attend a New Directions performance, or something.

"Okay, I'll see you then, kid."

"See you then."

"Hey—Kurt?"

He hesitates, stopping just outside of the choir room to finish his call. Blaine hangs back with him. "Yes?"

"Are you… really feeling okay?"

He hates lying to his dad, who doesn't deserve it. He's too sick and, despite the recent growth of their family, Kurt knows that he is the most important person in his dad's life. It's just as applicable the other way around, so it honestly hurts him to lie.

"_Yes_, Dad, I'm feeling _fine._" He rolls his eyes exaggeratedly at Blaine. "I have rehearsal, though, okay? I have to go."

"Alright, bud. Take it easy, okay?"

"I will. Goodbye."

Rehearsal goes okay. He does have to sit out for a few minutes in the middle of it, and this is only because he can't _not_ sit down without losing consciousness again. During this time he carefully avoids looking at Wes, and he is back on his wobbly feet in no time.

He sleeps fitfully that night, partly because of his aching limbs and a slight fever, but in part because of the gut-wrenching anxiety that settles in his throat and makes him feel like gagging.

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><p><strong>I hope you enjoyed! Please review. :)<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

**As promised, an early update! Currently my boyfriend is reading this over my shoulder, which is hugely embarrassing but I can't get him to stop it. **

**SO. ANSWERS. HERE THEY ARE. I HOPE YOU ARE READY FOR THEM.**

**I... don't think I have anything else to say here. So. Please enjoy!**

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><p>Kurt isn't ready for this.<p>

The doctor is looking at him with pity and his file is clutched tightly in his hand. There's another doctor there, a small woman with freckles and glasses and short hair and a kind smile. Kurt sits on the table, wrinkling the paper underneath him with a horrible, harsh sound, and his dad stands next to him and holds his hand.

"Hello, Kurt. This is Dr. Miele," said Dr. Hadley. "She's going to be working with you from now on."

Uneasy, Kurt glances at Burt, whose face has hardened.

"Why?" he asks.

"Kurt," the doctor says, and he puts too much weight in this one word, and the boy knows something bad is coming. "We think you might have some form of leukemia."

He felt like all the air had been punched out of him. "_What_?" he gasped, trying to find his breath. "Why?"

"We did a complete blood count," Dr. Miele took over. "Your levels of red blood cells and platelets are low. You're anemic, which is causing you to get tired easily and get short of breath. That's probably why you fainted in school the other day. And the low platelets are causing your bruising. On top of that, we found some leukemic cells. Kurt, we believe you have Acute Leukemia. We just need to do some tests to confirm the cell-type."

He can't find in it himself to even contemplate responding to that. Instead, he sits there with his mouth open, feeling his body get more achy, more tingly, hotter, and he can barely think. He doesn't understand.

"What kind of tests?" Burt's gravelly voice asks, and Kurt is so grateful to feel that large hand squeeze around his. Otherwise, he thinks, he might float away or sit there forever, just gaping, not comprehending. Without that hand holding his, he thinks he might just stop existing.

"I'd like to do a bone marrow biopsy and aspiration. We'll take the sample today. We have to send the sample to a different hospital out-of-state, so the results won't be back for a few days. But when they come in, we can admit you and work out a treatment plan based on the type of leukemia you have."

"Admit?" Kurt finally squeaks. Reasonably, he's not sure what else he can expect, now that he has—he can barely think the words without feeling absolutely _sick_—cancer.

And oh, god, he has fucking _cancer. _The realization smacks him in the chest with great force, like a wrecking ball, and he sucks in a breath. The doctors are just watching him sympathetically, and so he presses his hand to his mouth and tears drip out of his eyes.

There is no way this is happening, because this means something too damn _huge _and he can't deal with that. That kind of stuff just can't happen to him. He isn't _ready_ for his life to just come to a halt like this; everything that he knows and everything he's used to—school, Warblers, being able to hang out every day with his friends, doing homework, goofing off, being a frickin' _kid_—it's all going to just stop. His life is going to become chemotherapy, cell counts, treatments, _cancer_.

His dad is speaking to the doctors, but he can barely listen. He hears snippets only, things like _anesthetic _and _oncology _and _urgent. _They bring him to another part of the hospital for the tests. Even with the numbing anesthesia they inject in him just before the procedure, it is one of the most physically painful things he's ever experienced. He's still crying silently after everything's done, his face twisted. He feels ugly and weak. Everything hurts.

Burt leads him out of the hospital, helping him walk with his weirdly numb hip, and places him gently into the car.

"I'll be right back, kiddo."

Kurt watches him pull out his cell phone as he goes and knows he's calling Carole to break the news.

He looks down at himself. He's still in his Dalton uniform; it's haphazardly buttoned, and the sleeves are pushed up his arms, crinkled and messy-looking. There are more bruises littering his skin.

He can't hide this anymore.

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><p>At home, Carole gives him a watery-eyed look and hugs him without saying anything. He stays limp through the embrace, finding it difficult to get himself to do much of anything, but he leans in and presses his face into her shoulder. She understands. It's enough.<p>

Finn isn't home yet. He's still at Glee, and their parents decide to wait until he comes home to tell him what's happened. Burt sets him up on the couch with a blanket and the remote and puts in The Sound of Music.

Kurt grew up watching The Sound of Music whenever anything went wrong. It was a tradition started by his mother, who would cuddle with him on this very couch and tickle him gently until his tears dried enough to sing along.

It even works this time; there is just no resisting the young, beautiful Julie Andrews and those adorable von Trapp children. Christopher Plummer wasn't bad to look at, either, back in the sixties.

But when the front door opens and Finn booms, "I'm home!" and Kurt can hear him kicking off his shoes and taking off his varsity jacket, his heart sinks. He listens as Carole uses her gentle voice to sit Finn down at the kitchen table and there is hesitance and fear in the returning tone.

He can't hear their words, not until after the news has been broken. The severity of the situation hasn't fully hit Burt or Carole yet—their reactions have not been strong, have not been violent. They are not devastated yet. Kurt knows later, his dad will be angry, but for now, he's just calm and sad.

But Finn—Finn with his big heart and his simple emotions—it hits him right away. Finn shouts a single, "_What_?" and Carole says something to him in a soothing tone.

"What do you mean, _leukemia_? Kurt… Kurt has _cancer_?"

An affirmative comes from Carole and Finn makes this _sound_—this affronted, wounded, wordless noise. It's so open it sounds less than human.

"_Why_? How—is he going to be okay?" He sounds so helpless. It's exactly the way Kurt _feels_.

Somehow, Carole's reply is completely audible: "I don't know, honey."

Finn asks where he is, and Carole tells him. Kurt, hearing his step-brother coming, pushes himself up on the couch until he is sitting, turned around to face the doorway.

Their eyes meet and Finn freezes. His eyes are rimmed red already. His mouth opens, his eyelashes flicker, and he stares for a minute before surging forward. His arms catch Kurt around the shoulders in a constricting hug and lift him up off the couch so that his legs are bent awkwardly and the tops of his feet are pressed into the cushions.

Kurt finally figures out how his arms work and he clutches at Finn's shirt, between his shoulder blades.

Finn is crying, and now the tears he'd suppressed hours ago are coming back and the brothers are sobbing into each other's shoulders. The fabric on their shoulders is stained with wetness.

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><p>There is a general consensus that he can't attend Dalton while he's receiving treatment. He can't stay in the dorms, as he has been—too far from family and the hospital—and his dad's not comfortable with him commuting almost two hours every day.<p>

However, McKinley's not a really great option, either; even this might not be a deterrent from the bullying. Kids can be incredibly cruel, and they always single out the person who's _different_—and if Kurt's not already considered a freak for being gay, being a _sick _gay will guarantee he is. Even if they aren't allowed to touch him, all the kids who've hated him before will find other ways to bully him. He knows.

It's not something he wants to deal with. So, his dad agrees to look into homeschooling.

His dad also agrees, very reluctantly, to let him go back to Dalton until he has to start treatment. The biggest reason is that he needs to have a couple more days of something normal before everything goes to shit (these are not the terms he uses with his father). Burt appears to understand this, at the very least.

So, back in a neatly pressed uniform at Dalton Academy, he pulls Blaine aside at the earliest opportunity. His friend has been sending him odd looks of concern all day, and he's not sure if it's because he's still sick or if he's been acting strangely.

Blaine leans against the wall and smiles charmingly at him, hand tucked in his pocket and one foot casually crossed over the other.

"I lied to you," Kurt says very quietly, holding his books tight to his chest.

Blaine's face falls. "What?" he asks dumbly, blinking at his younger friend. Kurt purses his lips as his eyes tear up and he lets out a shuddering breath.

"I lied," he repeats, shifting the textbooks in his grasp. "When I went to the doctor the other day, they did a blood test. I went back to the hospital yesterday…"

Blaine swallows heavily, looking more lost and scared than Kurt thought possible for the ever-cool boy. His eyes search Kurt's face pleadingly.

"I'm sick, Blaine," he gasps.

"What do you mean?" The question comes out sluggishly, confused and slow and stiff.

"I have leukemia." When there is only shocked silence as a response, he continues. "They're doing some tests to figure out the type… Once they have the results, I'll be admitted for treatment."

"I don't understand," Blaine whispers brokenly. "Kurt, you said… you said you were fine."

"I know. I'm sorry." A tear escapes and slides down to his chin. "I was scared and I didn't want you to worry. I didn't know anything was wrong for sure until yesterday. I'm so sorry."

Blaine is looking away from him, his face closed off. Kurt reaches for his hand, desperate for his friend to look at him, to tell him that it's okay. Those calloused fingers twitch back, out of his grasp.

Struggling to keep his composure, Kurt pulls his hand back and wedges it around the stack of books. Suddenly, he doesn't want to stay at Dalton another day. He gives a watery, tight smile and says, "This is my last day. I'm going to go home tonight."

Blaine _still isn't looking at him_. He's still not _saying _anything. So Kurt takes a deep breath and walks away, wiping furiously at his eyes with his sleeves.

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading and, as always, thank you for reviewing and adding me and my story to your alerts and favorites! Keep doing that.<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**…Well, then. I honestly DID intend to update this sooner. I just… I just forget sometimes.**

**So. I don't own Simple Plan or their song "Save You." I don't even really listen to them. It was suggested by my sister and it's about cancer, so there it is.**

**I also hate that part of the chapter anyway. **

**Next one should actually be up soon!**

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><p>He is late to his last class of the day because he has to call his dad to let him know that he wants to come home tonight. He makes it through the phone call without sounding too alarmingly like his heart has been ripped out of his chest. He claims that he's just too tired, physically and emotionally, to manage another day at school. Burt assures him that he will be there as soon as he can to help him pack up his things and to take him home. He sits through his pre-calculus class with his chin in his palm, barely managing to pay attention enough to take notes and do the classwork.<p>

When the bell rings, he goes to his room as fast as he can and locks himself in. He feels like he can barely breathe. His dad won't be able to arrive for another forty-five minutes at least, so he slides to the floor, leaning against the hard, unforgiving door, and gasps as tears collect on his chin.

Was it silly of him to want support from one of his very best friends? Yes, he lied, he kept a secret, but shouldn't that kind of lose importance in the wake of this terrible diagnosis?

But maybe that's just it. Maybe it was too important a secret to keep.

His quiet sobs soon die down and he stands shakily, heading to the closet to retrieve the packing boxes from his move in. He doesn't have much here; he's not one to collect a lot of possessions. He has his moisturizers and hair products, some clothes for the weekend, his school things, his Dalton uniforms, a few books, his iPhone, his computer, and some pictures he's printed of New Directions and his family. It's always been enough. He packs the books away and starts to wrap the jars of moisturizers and hair products back in the newspaper he'd originally cushioned them in. He's moving on to the few clothing items he keeps neatly folded in the dresser when his dad knocks on the door. Together, they have the room packed away in fifteen minutes.

Kurt tries to refuse to let his dad carry anything to the car, but Burt stops him with an incredulous look and says, "Are you kidding me?" and Kurt isn't allowed to lift a finger to help. Instead, he bundles himself up for the winter weather and waits in his room for his father to finish packing the car.

"I spoke to the principal on the phone on the way over here," Burt tells him once he's done and they're standing in the bland, empty space. "They're gonna make an announcement to the students tomorrow."

"Oh." He wasn't exactly expecting that. It makes sense, he supposes, considering that the student body is relatively small, and so everyone knows everyone. They'll all notice his absence. On top of that, there is a feeling of community here: they're all supposed to be there for each other. Of course they'll tell the students.

It still makes him feel uneasy.

"He's also helping us get set up for homeschooling. But they said you're welcome back anytime, and… and that they'll waive the tuition fee."

This hits him hard: it's so unexpectedly _kind_. He's really more used to hatred than kindness, and this is so significant that it makes it hard to breathe for a second.

"Come on," Burt says, "let's get you home."

Though there are plenty of kids milling in the hallways, looking at him with questions in their eyes, Kurt doesn't say a word to any of them. He closes his eyes, allowing himself to be lead by his father's strong arm until he is in the car.

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><p>Tina leans over in her seat towards Mercedes and whispers, "What's up with Finn?"<p>

The diva openly stares at the boy in question for a few moments. His eyes are bloodshot and dead-looking, and the skin around them is slightly pink. His mouth is hanging open just a little as he fixes his gaze on something a thousand miles away.

"I don't know," Mercedes says finally. "If it was relationship drama, we definitely would have already heard by now."

"Hey, Hudson," Santana snaps from across the room. "What the hell's your problem? You need to stop it with that creepy-ass look on your face before I—"

"Santana, _shut up_," Finn grinds out through his teeth, and it is so uncharacteristically harsh that, though it's by no means loud, the entire room shuts up and gapes at him.

At the front of the room, Mr. Shue says, "Finn? Is there anything you need to talk about?"

"Is Kurt's dad okay?" Artie jumps in.

"He's fine," Finn says, but he accompanies this with a sort of choking noise and buries his face in his hands, so the Glee-clubbers know they're on the right track.

"Is it your mom?"

"_No_."

Silence comes then. Confused, everyone looks at each other with their eyebrows furrowed, whispering and shrugging.

"What is it, then?" Mercedes finally asks.

Finn takes a deep breath, not removing his head from the cradle of his hands, and replies in a soft and broken tone, "It's Kurt."

And still no one gets it, because it's so absurd that Kurt could be hurt when he's at Dalton. He's safe there.

"What are you talking about, Finn?" Puck asks, sounding just like he normally does, that annoyed, superior tone, because there's no reason not to act normal. "What's Kurt?"

The tall boy finally leans back in his chair, letting one hand fall onto his lap while using this other to knuckle vigorously at his eyes.

"Kurt's sick. Really sick."

"What do you mean?" Quinn asks softly, sounding annoyed and uncomprehending. She looks over at him like he has called her ugly, like he has offended her.

Finn doesn't respond, but around him, his classmates' faces are beginning to slowly morph into looks of disbelief and apprehension.

Mercedes vaults to her feet and stomps down the risers, turning to lean in as close to Finn as she could manage without falling into his lap, shoving her finger in his face. "Boy, you better tell me, _what the hell do you mean, _he's _really sick_?"

"He… he passed out at Warblers rehearsal on Friday. He had all these bruises on him and he had a fever. He looked so tired and miserable… His dad brought him to the doctor and they did some tests… and yesterday they called Kurt back in… and they…" He sniffs and takes a moment to compose himself. "He has leukemia."

No one can think of anything to say for a few moments. Finn sniffs again, loudly, rubs his nose, and says, "He starts treatment in a few days. He was going to stay at Dalton, but Burt texted me earlier and… He's coming home tonight."

"Well, we're coming over," Mercedes tells him, looking around at everyone, daring them to disagree. It doesn't seem that anyone _wants _to disagree. Rachel, in fact, stands up and nods resolutely. Her jaw is set and she's clasping her hands and everyone knows she's about to start telling them what to do—but the look on her face is not the usual bossy, selfish expression she gets when she's about to inform them that she will be taking all the solos, _thank you_—it's the one she gets when she's serious, when she drops the unimportant stuff because she knows that this is what needs to be done, and she's determined to _help someone_.

"Okay. The _first _thing we need to do is find a song to sing to him. Any suggestions?"

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><p>When Kurt gets home, the entirety of New Directions is there already, sitting around on the couch and the floor. He jerks to a halt in the doorway when he notices them, caught completely by surprise.<p>

"Um… hi," he says slowly. Burt comes up behind him in the doorway, carrying a few hangers full of Kurt's weekend clothes.

"Oh, hey, guys," he greets casually. "Mind helping carry Kurt's stuff in?" Instantly, all of the boys are up off the floor and Burt is gently moving Kurt aside so they can get his things from the car.

Mercedes is on her feet too, and she's upon him in seconds, pulling him into a crushing bear hug. He winces a little, because he's so sore and bruised all over, and because he knows that she's bruising him more now, and if he tells her that, she'll feel guilty.

"Hi, 'cedes," he whispers, tilting his head to rest it on her shoulder.

"Kurt, baby, I'm so sorry."

He doesn't know what to say, so he stays quiet. They're still locked in the embrace when the guys come back in and stack the boxes at the base of the stairs.

Rachel stands up, looking nervous, her eyes supportive and her fingers twisting together. "We worked on a song for you today," she says.

Kurt smiles softly and rolls his eyes. "Of course you did."

They put him on the couch and arrange themselves in a half-circle around him. He removes his layers until he's in just the white shirt, grey slacks, and tie of his uniform, then wraps himself in a blanket, as they each hum the opening pitch and wriggle their limbs to loosen up. Then, it begins; Finn steps forward from the middle and the rest of the group starts off with a slow, sad measure of quarter notes.

"_Take a breath. I pull myself together. Just another step 'til I reach the door. You'll never know the way it tears me up inside to see you. I wish that I could tell you something to take it all away_."

On this last line, Finn's eyes bore into his, and there was so much pain and so much sincerity there that Kurt had to press the butt of his palm to his mouth to keep from making a noise. The rest of the club keeps a steady a cappella background.

"_Sometimes I wish I could save you__, __and there're so many things that I want you to know__. __I won't give up till it's over.__If it takes you forever, I want you to know_…"

Finn steps back and Artie takes over. The rest of the song is split up into short solos between the rest of the members, who all look him in the eyes as they sing, but none with the same expression. They all have their own unique look on their faces, different mixtures of sadness, strength, and love.

Mercedes steps forward to finish the song. "_If only I could find the answer to take it all away. Sometimes I wish I could save you__, __and there're so many things that I want you to know__. __I won't give up till it's over.__If it takes you forever, I want you to know, I wish I could save you_. _I want you to know, I wish I could save you._"

Kurt doesn't even try to hide the steady stream of tears down his face or the huge grin on his mouth. "Thank you," he manages to whisper. "That was wonderful. I… I really missed you guys."

"We've missed you too, boo," Brittany gushes, surging forward to throw her arms around his neck and nuzzle his cheek. "I'm sorry you're sick."

"I'll be fine," he responds insistently, patting her knee. "I promise."

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><p><strong>I still really hate that last scene. More Blaine coming up. :) Please review!<strong>


	6. Chapter 6

**Hi everybody! This is the part of the story where I start having to say stuff like this: I AM NOT A DOCTOR. I'M NOT EVEN PARTICULARLY GOOD AT CHEM OR BIOLOGY. I did a lot of internet research, but that only goes so far. If you spot any egregious errors, feel free to let me know, but PLEASE keep in mind that 1) this is not my field, so I'm not dumb if I don't know this stuff, and 2) this is fanfiction. It's not really a big deal. So if you have to correct me, do it NICELY.**

**Also, I edited some things in Chapter 2; I still had his room in the basement in that chapter and just realized the mistake, so now it's fixed.**

**Thank you for your continued feedback! I really appreciate it. **In this chapter, we have some Blaine and (limited) Warblers, among other things. **Please enjoy it and keep letting me know what you think! **

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><p>The administrators at Dalton call a meeting the day after Kurt tells him the news. Wes and David flank Blaine all the way to the auditorium as well as while they are sitting there, waiting for the thing to start. He didn't sleep well the night before and he had spent the entire afternoon after that horrible confession in a daze. They're worried about him.<p>

He feels sick, because he thinks he knows what this assembly is about and he doesn't want to hear the same words his head has been stuck on since yesterday coming out of someone else's mouth. He wants them to disappear. He wants them to be a lie.

"Where's Kurt?" he hears Thad ask from behind him and he can't take it anymore. He leans forward and smashes his face into his hands and tries to just shut his brain down because he just can't take this anymore.

"I saw his dad come pick him up yesterday," someone else says.

_Shut up, shut up, shut up! _Blaine wants to turn around and scream.

Then the principal is on the stage with some other faculty members sitting in a row behind him and he walks up to the microphone and taps it for attention. The gathering of boys hushes and they turn to listen, curious to know what has called them here.

"Good afternoon, students," the man begins, his normally brisk tone sounding soft instead. "I apologize to you and to your teachers for interrupting class today. I've called this meeting in order to inform you all about an unfortunate circumstance that has befallen one of your fellow students."

_Fuck_, he knew that this was coming. His chest is starting to burn and he is overcome with the desire to bawl into his hands; he is in so much pain. He can't breathe.

A low murmur runs through the group, infused with intrigue and concern in equal parts. The principal waits for the noise to subside with a solemn look hardening his features.

Finally, he continues. "I regret to inform you all that Kurt Hummel has been diagnosed with leukemia. He will not be returning to classes here at Dalton Academy until further notice, as he will begin receiving treatment at Lima Memorial within the next few days."

There is a long silence after the words are spoken, during which time Blaine tries his hardest not to just tremble apart completely.

Someone—Jeff, he thinks, though he is too far gone into this feeling that he is dying to know for sure—says, in the smallest voice anyone has heard on him, "Is he going to be okay?"

They are all now just little boys looking for guidance.

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><p>Kurt spends the next few days fielding calls, texts, and Facebook messages from his friends at Dalton as well as at McKinley. Sometimes he'll receive a visit. When he's not doing this, he's watching TV or sleeping, and waiting for the dreaded phone call from the hospital.<p>

It's easy to get depressed when he's not occupied by a visitor or someone in his family. He finds himself staring at his phone often, reading the last message Blaine sent him over and over again. It's from a time before leukemia, the morning of the day he received the diagnosis.

**From: Blaine**

**10:32AM**

**Mrs. O.'s voice is putting me to sleep. Text to keep me awake?**

He was in the middle of a test at the time and couldn't respond.

He hasn't heard from Blaine since that terrible confession. He's typed and deleted about twenty messages to the curly-haired boy since then, too scared to send them.

It's not as if Blaine will want to read them, anyway. Blaine is angry with him. Blaine isn't going to be there for him. And it hurts, but… but he understands. He just wishes it hadn't turned out this way.

The thought of this makes his body hurt all over, makes his heart feel like it's shriveling up into a little pit in his chest, so he buries his face in his arms and cries.

The home phone rings. It's been three days since the bone marrow samples were taken, so it's every moment now is spent anxious in wait for the results to be in. Kurt tenses, listening as Carole answers.

About a minute later, she pokes her head into the family room, where Kurt is curled on the couch, and says, "Honey? They have your test results."

_Oh, shit. Oh shit, oh shit._ Kurt curves further into the cushions, holding his phone to his chest and squeezing it anxiously. He isn't ready for this.

"Sweetie, are you awake?" Carole calls after a few moments of silence, approaching the back of the couch. Slowly, he pushes himself up.

"Yes."

"They said they'd like you to come in as soon as possible to be admitted for the night. Do you have your bag packed?"

He does. It's up in his room, next to his bed. It contains his most comfortable pajamas (the blue silk set), a comfortable change of clothes for tomorrow, his laptop, a stack of magazines, and several types of lotion.

"It's in my room," he tells his stepmother, making his way toward the stairs to get it. "Where's Dad?"

"He's at the garage. I'll call him while you get ready, okay?"

Burt is home in ten minutes; they leave almost immediately. In the backseat, Kurt taps out a quick update to Finn. It should be about lunchtime, so he knows the text will be received quickly.

He takes a deep breath entering the Cancer Institute at Lima Memorial. It's nice in there; everything looks new and clean and the décor is simple. This is something Kurt is always able to appreciate, if only because he craves the detachment from his current situation of admiring tasteful interior design.

Soon, he's all checked in and a nurse is leading him to his room. They run some compulsory tests on him and take another blood sample, which doesn't leave him feeling as gooey as the last one did. Dr. Miele comes in just a little while later, just after he gets settled into the bed, smiling softly at him.

"Hello, Kurt. We've got your test results back from the lab," she begins with no preamble. It doesn't come off as unkind (he doesn't think _anything _she could say would ever come off as unkind). "It appears you have Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia, which is about what we suspected. It's the most common for people of your age. We've caught it fairly early, but the cancer acts relatively quickly, so we need to start you on an aggressive regimen right away."

He doesn't want to be doing this right now. He doesn't even want to be thinking about anything remotely similar to this. He wants to be far away on a beach somewhere. He wants to be healthy. Instead, he nods slowly and says, "Okay."

"We'll insert a Hickman catheter tonight and start you on a chemotherapy regimen tomorrow afternoon. This will be a combination of prednisone, vincristine, and L-asparaginase. The initial round of chemo will be administered weekly for about four weeks. The L-asparaginase will be administered every five days. You can go home between treatments, provided there are no complications. After these four weeks, you'll have a break of about a month before we start another round, if it's still needed."

What is really weighing on his mind is a question he isn't sure he wants to ask. He knows there are going to be side effects to the treatment. He knows he is probably going to be left a bald, skinny, disgusting version of himself after all is said and done. He hates the idea and, though it's all he can think about, he wants to let it go. So he doesn't ask. He just nods slowly, wishing he could get this over with.

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><p><strong>Hey there everybody! Hoped you liked it. I just put out a cute little Klaine oneshot called "The Language of Love." PLEASE go check it out, because I would love to know what you think, and because it's a break from all the horrible depressing fanfiction that's out there (mine included). Seriously, though, I've read so much depressing Klaine lately I want to claw out my eyeballs.<strong>

**Sooo... on that note... please review! Thanks for reading!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Heyyy guys. I've written some for-real Klaine. :) It won't show up for at least a few chapters, though. But it's happening! And there is **_**lots**_** of Blaine in this chapter. **

**Once again, I know very little about cancer and treatment and stuff. So I'm not sure why I'm writing this except that I like sick!Kurt. But anyway, the point is that you should go easy on me if I make any medical mistakes. **

**A WARNING: I am slightly concerned that I'm going to run out of story soon, even though I'm trying my best to keep up the writing and to update somewhat infrequently and with shortish chapters. I apologize, but I MAY have to slow down the updating sometime soon. On the other hand… maybe I won't. Who knows.**

**Thank you for reading and reviewing and all of that! Please keep doing it!**

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><p>Blaine doesn't know why he doesn't just call Kurt. Kurt has somehow become his best friend in the short time they've known each other, and he knows if he keeps this silence between them, he'll lose that.<p>

But really, he really just can't. He sometimes sits for minutes at a time just staring at his phone, unmoving, locked in this sort of trance. His logic is screaming at him, trying to get him to dial the number, to apologize.

But—he's kind of _mad_. He's not sure if it's fair for him to be angry about this, but damn it, he is. It hurts that Kurt didn't see fit to tell him that there was something more to the virus he claimed he had. Those lies—they were so stupid to tell and it _hurt him_. Doesn't Kurt trust him?

Then again, now that amazing boy has no reason to trust him with those most important things. This is another reason why he doesn't call. He's ashamed of himself. He's absolutely goddamn ashamed of the way he acted. He holed himself up, shut himself off when his best friend needed him. What kind of fucking _idiot _does that make him?

And really, hasn't Kurt been through enough? His whole life has been a struggle, from losing his mother to almost losing his father to dealing with bullying every day. That kiss. The pain of each slur, the pain of wanting his mother to hold him after the roughest days at school. Now cancer? Blaine is more religious than his young friend; he can't help but wonder why the hell God is doing this to such a wonderful boy.

There's still another reason why he doesn't call, and it's perhaps the stupidest of all. It's stupid that he wants to pretend this just isn't happening. He knows this, but the desire he has to just ignore the whole thing and hope it goes away overwhelms him to the point that he can barely move with the intensity of it, with the way his muscles seize up and his heart pounds and his skin burns.

By the time Finn texts him, about three-quarters of the Warblers have made the trip to Lima to see their friend, and Blaine has only sat around and wished he could be stronger.

**From: Finn Hudson**

**2:40 PM**

**hey kurts bein admitted to hospital. starts chemo tomorrow afternoon. u should come see him. he has procedr at 6 but u can come visit b4 or after.**

He stares at the message absently for a little while, wanting more than anything to follow the teen's badly-typed advice and rush over to Lima Memorial Hospital and beg for forgiveness. He wants to be there for his best friend. But he's terrified. He runs all those reasons why he's been hiding from this through his head, halfheartedly trying to spare himself the pain of visiting Kurt. Because he _knows_ it will be painful.

But he can't do it anymore. He can't pretend. It feels like it's ripping a huge hole into his person, all of this stupid shit he's pulling, and he can't be away from Kurt any longer. So, twenty-seven minutes after he first lays eyes on that text message, he finds himself sprinting through the halls of Dalton Academy, desperate to be with that beautiful boy as soon as he possibly can.

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><p>A few minutes before 5 o'clock, a nurse knocks on the doorframe and says, "Kurt, you have a visitor."<p>

Not two seconds later, that visitor appears in the doorway next to the nurse, hovering just behind her.

Shocked, Kurt just gapes at him for a few seconds. He looks absolutely _disheveled. _His hair is barely gelled, and it's a little puffier than usual, and a lot messier. Dark bags ring the underside of his eyes, like he hasn't slept in days or weeks or months. His eyes and cheeks are a little too pink, too, and they look a little swollen. His face is damp. His uniform is wrinkly and hangs incorrectly on his body.

Kurt can't help but wonder why he's here. It's been three days since Blaine's fingers moved away from his, since he was denied comfort and forgiveness from his friend. He can't understand why Blaine has come back to him. He doesn't understand why he's been _crying_. He thought Blaine was _angry._

Carole stands up from her seat next to Kurt's bed, dragging Burt with her, proclaiming that they are going to go get coffee and will be back soon. The young man in the door steps aside for them to exit the room, and hesitates outside, seeming much more nervous than usual. Slowly, he walks over to Kurt's side and settles down in one of the vacated chairs.

"Hi," he whispers, his voice crackly and soft, not at all smooth. Kurt misses that crooning tenor. It was always so reassuring.

"Hey," says the sick boy in response, pulling his knees up and wrapping his fingers around his toes. He hasn't struck this particular pose in a long time. When he was little, he used to do it when he was feeling insecure or sad or contemplative. He forced himself to stop doing it sometime in middle school, after he decided he needed to change his image to project confidence in order to stop the bullying.

Now, though, it doesn't matter nearly as much. He is already so weak and vulnerable. It doesn't matter if he looks like a child. It feels right to return to that old familiar pose.

He stays silent, waiting for his friend to begin. It kind of hurts, so much that it is almost a physical pain, to be face to face with Blaine when everything between them is so tense and messed up, and when he's remembering the tears he's shed over the past few days, not knowing if his best friend would ever speak to him again.

Blaine closes his eyes and breathes in, as if to calm himself, but his brow stays furrowed and his frown doesn't disappear.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs finally.

This takes Kurt by surprise, probably more than it should. Instantly, his eyes well up and he pleads, quietly, "_Why_? I'm the one who's sorry, Blaine. I should have… I shouldn't have tried to hide it. I should have told you."

"Kurt, I don't care about any of that," Blaine insists urgently, leaning forward and taking hold of the younger boy's soft hands. "I don't. I'm the one who should be sorry, Kurt—I was too scared and shocked to be a good friend to you. I should have been there for you this whole time. I'm such an idiot. I was so _selfish_."

All the countertenor says in response is, "I understand," and the immediate acceptance and forgiveness, the love in his voice, just seems to break Blaine. He leans forward, burying his face desperately in the soft crook of Kurt's neck, wrapping his arms tightly around the other boy's body.

"God, Kurt, I'm so sorry," he whispers as tears break free of his eyes and track down to his chin. This time, he isn't apologizing for his actions, but for the situation, for the younger boy's terrible luck. Kurt knows. He returns the hug, closing his eyes and relishing in the warmth of Blaine's arms.

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><p><strong>Finn is most definitely the horrendous-chatspeak type.<strong>

**I hope you liked it! Please review!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Hey! In this chapter, Kurt begins treatment. I've been told (by the internet) that the medications he's receiving (which I talked about toward the end of chapter 6) actually don't cause nausea like some other chemo meds do. However… I wanted him to be nauseous. So I decided he was going to be nauseous whether the real world dictated he would be or not. I compensated a little bit for it, but. There you go.**

**OH. There's some religious talk in this chapter. I won't reveal my own religious views to you guys, but I will tell you that I'm not projecting my own religious beliefs onto the characters. Every trait or value I ascribe to a character is chosen for the purpose of the story or because I believe it's in-character.**

**SO THANKS. For reading. And reviewing. And adding me and my story to your favorites. And alerts. I like it. So don't stop doing it. Okay.**

**EDIT 06/14: Hey guys. This chapter was a MESS. I added a divider where there should have been one, fixed some tense errors, and changed Kurt's mom's name to Elizabeth. Because I decided recently that her name was probably Elizabeth (I'm a firm believer that Kurt's parents didn't actually name him Kurt Elizabeth Hummel because that would be stupid).**

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><p>The Hickman catheter is weird. It actually sends a hot flush of shame through him to see those long wires literally coming out of his chest, like strange, terrible snakes. And the feeling of them under his skin is uncomfortable to the point that he can't stop thinking about it.<p>

He refuses to let anyone see it, but the outline of the thing is visible under the sky blue t-shirt he's wearing.

He wants to tug it out, but unfortunately, there would be lots and lots of blood and he's not sure he can deal with that. He resists the urge to pull on it by occupying his fingers. He relearns how to make string figures and paper cranes, like he used to know when he was young. The string figures he makes out of one of Finn's shoelaces, graciously offered up by the giant boy as soon as he had asked. The cranes are folded out of some scrap paper the nurses scrounged up for him from around the hospital. He spends all morning the day of his first chemotherapy treatment doing this. There are about twenty paper cranes of varying sizes sitting on his bedside table when the nurse comes in to begin.

She shoos Quinn, Tina, and Mercedes out of the room and instructs him to remove his shirt so she can get to the catheter while Burt, who stayed in the chair next to the bed all night and isn't about to leave now, dresses in protective gloves and a gown so he can stay.

Kurt's already been given some anti-nausea medications, but the doctor told him that, since he's young, embarrassingly prone to motion sickness, and has little experience with alcohol (the Bambi incident has ensured that, for the time being, he has sworn off the stuff), there is a chance he might still get sick. She's also told him that hair loss is common with the medication he'll be receiving, and that it usually happens in one to three weeks after the first treatment.

He needs more time, he thinks desperately as she connects the line to the catheter. In seconds, he can see the drugs begin to flow through the tubing. He wants them to stay where they are.

Burt holds his hand as he sits next to the bed, leaning forward and watching his face with this intense look of sadness. It makes Kurt uneasy and guilty to see that expression on his dad's face, so he closes his eyes and sits back against the pillows, trying not to think about the fact that the IV is pumping poison into his veins.

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><p>That night, Kurt is too sick to go home. The medication made him nauseous, and he spent hours throwing up during and after the procedure. He's dehydrated and aching and tired, and the doctor says it's best for him to be cared for during this time in a hospital.<p>

Carole gently informs Burt that _she _will be the one to stay with Kurt tonight, thank you, and _he _will be the one going home, getting some sleep and cleaning himself up and eating a proper dinner. Finn is spending the night over at Puck's with Sam, Mike, and Artie.

Burt stands alone in the middle of his empty house for about ten minutes without moving before he loses it for the first time.

"God _dammit_!" he roars, kicking out at the closest thing he can reach, which happens to be the couch. He strides angrily around the damn thing to get at the little table that sits right behind it. He sends all the pictures frames and trinkets to the floor with a sweep of his arms and an agitated grunt. He stops and stares at the wreckage, panting heavily as tears collect in his eyes.

It's really just not fucking fair. Seventeen years ago, when he was marrying Emily and they were expecting their little baby boy—he could never have anticipated this. It overwhelms him sometimes, thinking about how unsuspecting they were back then, how happy they were and how quickly it all went to shit. How hard it was, dealing with the crap Kurt got from his classmates, then with Emily's death. And things never, never got easier for his little boy. Why did whoever was running things see fit to destroy their little family? It was _wrong_ to torment three people who just loved each other, who just wanted to live life and be happy.

Burt just can't stop being _angry _now that it's burst out of him like this. Since the diagnosis, he managed to keep it together with a numbness that just kind of took him over, but now that it's hit him, full force, how sick his son is, he's completely thrown by the anger. It's like a tidal wave that's swept him up and dragged him, tumbling and helpless, into the ocean.

Watching Kurt sweat and cry and heave, watching him stare with feverish, hooded eyes, listening to him whine, _killed _Burt. He could barely stand it, could barely stand sitting there holding his little boy's hand while he suffered. He doesn't know what he would have done if he hadn't been able to hold himself in. Blow up, maybe.

"Why did it have to be _him_?" he shouts, throwing his head back. "How in the world does he _fucking deserve this_?"

He's not sure who he's talking to. His whole life, he had only a tentative sort of faith. He never went to church, but he prayed at night and before his meals, and sometimes when things weren't going so well and he needed to believe that God could help him.

Now, he knows better; they're all screwed, either way. If God exists, he doesn't give a shit whether they live or die or _suffer_.

Suddenly, like an electric shock, he is no longer enraged, but overcome with grief instead.

He falls down onto his knees and bends until his forehead is pressed against the ground and his fists are clenched next to either ear, and he lets out a desperate, pained wail.

He is grieving for the loss of his son's happiness and wellbeing, and he is grieving for the loss of his faith.

He isn't grieving for the loss of Kurt's life, not yet. He may not need to. He's holding on to that. He knows that, since God is out of the picture, it's up to them now to pull through this—and they're the Hummels, _dammit_. They're strong, and, though it will be a difficult feat, they _will _make it through.

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><p>Quickly, Kurt and his family and friends fall into a routine. The doctors have warned against coming in contact with his bodily fluids for 48 hours after every treatment because of the toxins from the chemo, so he's very careful. He carries tissues with him at all times in case he needs to sneeze or cough and washes his hands often. He has to flush the toilet twice after every use. When he's sick, he makes absolutely sure he's vomiting into a bag, a trash can, or the toilet. Carole and Burt can't touch his sweaty body as he's heaving unless with a wet washcloth or gloves.<p>

He feels generally like crap all the time, and these sores have developed in his mouth and throat that make it very difficult to eat and drink—and it's _impossible _to enjoy it when he can. Not only does it tend to _hurt, _especially if he eats something acidic, but he doesn't usually have an appetite and things don't taste the same. Even Carole's amazing pot pie, the only dish that he will eat without giving a damn about the calories or the cholesterol, is bland and unexciting.

His friends have learned—Rachel and Mercedes by experience, the rest by word of mouth—not to visit the day of or after a treatment. Kurt wouldn't turn them away, of course, but he's so sick that he can't do much but lie there in the dark and make them hurt with worry and guilt. Any other day, though, he is well enough to sit with them or lie with his head in Mercedes's lap and talk and laugh.

It's almost like it used to be; his voice is just a little raspier, and sometimes he falls into a peaceful sleep while he still has guests, but it's close enough to normal that it makes everyone forget for a little while that it's not.

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><p><strong>I don't feel like I have anything else to say. So. Onward to the review button! Thanks for reading!<strong>


	9. Chapter 9

**OH HEY Y'ALL (I only use the world "y'all" facetiously). I wrote this stuff and then I was like, "Do I **_**really **_**want to do the hair scene? It's so cliché, bleh bleh bleh." But ultimately, I would have to scrap everything I have written after this point if I wanted to get rid of it. On top of that, it's something that really would affect Kurt and I think the story would be really lacking without his reaction to the hair loss. So I kept it. **

**Some language in this chapter, I guess… I really have no idea how bad my swearing has been so far in the story so I'm not sure if my warning's coming way too late, but whatever.**

**Still concerned that the writing's going too slow. I will try my absolute best to speed it up. **

**Thanks for all your lovely reviews and thank you for favoriting and subscribing and all that. I love to hear from you guys and it's very encouraging to have all your support! I hope I'm not driving you all away with my slow/short updates.**

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><p>Exactly seven days after his first chemo treatment, Kurt begins the watch. When he wakes up in the morning, he checks the pillow for stray hairs. He touches his hair gingerly in the shower, testing to see if any clumps come out, and gives it only the gentlest of washings.<p>

Later that day, the second round of chemo wipes out all thoughts of the hair loss, but when he's done retching and crying and sweating all over the sheets in the hospital bed, it's once again all he can think about. That night, as he lies in his own room feeling residual nausea churning his stomach and a terrible fatigue deep in his bones, he is kept awake by the notion that he needs to keep his head very, very still or all of the hair on the back of his head will come out in the night.

He doesn't actually start losing his hair until just before his fourth and final treatment, once he's started to let his guard down. It's one of the first times he's woken up in the morning without the tension, the anticipation of the loss, and he sits up and rubs his eyes and scratches his head, and a big clump just comes away with his hand. There's a sprinkling of fine, golden-brown threads on the pillow. The just-woken feeling in his body, the one that tingles and weighs him down, is gone instantly and it's replaced with the worst kind of pain, deep in his chest, like his heart is trying to squeeze itself into nothingness, into a black hole which will consume him.

His dad had bought him an electric razor a few days after his diagnosis. Burt had come into his room and presented him with it straight out of the Target bag without a word. Kurt had only fixed him with an affronted version of his bitch-face, refusing to take the damned thing.

They'd argued about it, but the razor had eventually been tucked away under the sink in Kurt's bathroom.

Kurt slowly stands up and dumps the hair into the wastebasket. The loose strands on the pillow follow with a few stiff swipes of his hand.

His legs move him jerkily into the bathroom. He closes the door and sits down, tucking himself against it.

He's being stupid. He's being so, so fucking stupid, and he knows it. He's endured much worse than just this superficial change in his appearance already, and he suspects that there is even _worse _to come. But seriously, it _hurts_ and he can't help it. He has always cared so much for his appearance and it's really hard to just let that go, even in the face of cancer.

He coped with the abuse he dealt with daily by always making sure he looked and spoke sharper than any of those stupid, sweaty bullies ever could. It helped remind him that he was better than them. He often sat in front of the mirror at home, prepping his hair and his clothes and his skin meticulously, whispering to himself the whole time that _they'll all work for me someday._

Getting sick means he has no hair, it means he hurts too much to choose fashion over comfort. It means he's losing weight and he's gaunt and his skin no longer glows; he is just pasty and ill-looking. He isn't able to deliver the same witty comments as he used to. He doesn't feel like he could possibly be better than anyone else now. He feels, in fact, ugly and useless.

He runs a tentative hand through his hair and closes it into a fist, and another small clump comes out. Standing up, his limbs trembling, he looks in the mirror. It's not as terrible as he thought; he _does _have rather a lot of hair, so he doesn't have any glaring bald spots, but he can still see the thinning.

Considering the ease with which the strands separated from his scalp, he can tell that he absolutely needs to get this over with immediately. Though he is appalled and disgusted, quite frankly, at the prospect of shaving his head, it is the lesser of two evils. He absolutely _will not _let anyone see him with his hair falling out in patches.

Steeling his nerves, he reaches under the sink for the razor. As quickly as he can manage, the device is plugged in and turned on, buzzing noisily in his hand.

He needs to get this over with, but he can't. He needs his dad. Abruptly and with a noise of frustration, he unplugs the razor from the wall and sprints out of the bathroom.

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><p><strong>From: Kurt<strong>

**9:03 AM**

**Can you please come to my room?**

Burt inspects the text message with a worried sort of curiosity. Since Kurt was diagnosed, everything—even something that would have been normal before, like his son texting him from somewhere in the house instead of just using his damn legs—has taken on a potential for urgency. He starts to feel the pain in his chest and the crawling skin that usually accompanies a slow-creeping feeling of dread.

Unwrapping his arm from around Carole, he pushes himself off the couch, where they had been watching the morning news. He grumbles a quick explanation as he trudges toward the stairs, trying to tell himself not to worry, that everything will be fine. He tries to keep his feet slow and steady. He manages.

His knuckles tap softly against Kurt's door and the response is instantaneous: a muffled "come in" comes to him from the other side.

His son has curled his lanky frame into a tight ball under the covers; Burt can see his outline through the comforter, can see his body heaving with heavy breaths.

"Kurt, you okay?"

The answer comes in the form of a pale fist shooting out from under the teenager's makeshift sanctuary. Confused and hesitant, he moves closer.

"Uhh…"

Kurt sighs impatiently, even through his obviously distressed breathing, and opens his fingers.

_Oh_. There's a clump of chestnut brown gathered together in the palm of that hand. There is only a little, a small smattering, but it's enough.

"I tried shaving it," Kurt whispers, and Burt has to lean way down to hear it. "But I couldn't… I couldn't." Slowly, he untucks himself and pulls the covers away so that his reddened face is peeking out.

"C'mon, kid," the elder Hummel replies softly, and he helps Kurt out of the bed. They walk into the bathroom together, slowly, like they are fighting to move against heavy weights on their shoulders.

Kurt closes his eyes and bends his head forward over the trash can, and he pretends that the movement of the razor over his scalp is something more inviting, like he's getting his hair brushed. That way, it feels therapeutic instead of like some huge part of him is being ripped out, right at his center.

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><p><strong>As always, thanks for reading and please review!<strong>


	10. Chapter 10

**Confession time: I recently watched Inception and have been hanging out pretty much exclusively over in that fandom ever since. I haven't really thought about Glee in a while but I'm definitely not abandoning this story. Thanks for your patience, for reading, and for the feedback!**

**This chapter is a lot of friendship-Klaine-fallout from the hair loss- that is a precursor to REAL KLAINE next chapter. So keep reading. :)**

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><p>Blaine is flipping the fuck out.<p>

He hasn't spoken to Kurt in just over seventy-two hours—and not for lack of trying. He's called his friend an obscene amount of times, and he's a little ashamed, but he's also _terrified_ that something bad happened, like the chemo is treating him worse than usual (and he's seen the way the chemo treats him normally) or there's some sort of new development. He's done his research—maybe the leukemia's moved into his central nervous system. Maybe his pancreas is inflamed or his blood isn't clotting right because of the treatment.

And maybe—and he feels like total scum for thinking that this might actually be _worse_—maybe Kurt just doesn't want to talk to him anymore. That thought twists his gut painfully and brings tears to his eyes.

He presses _3_ and then _SEND _on his phone and lifts the small device up to his ear. Next to him where he is sitting at a table in the cafeteria, David nudges him softly with his elbow.

"Calling Kurt again?" His voice is deceptively pleasant-sounding, but Blaine is well aware of the heavily judgmental undertones.

"Yes, I am," he bites back, not even attempting to hide the edge of irritation in his voice. "I haven't spoken to him since Friday afternoon. Something could be _seriously wrong_—"

"Yeah, we know, that's what you said the last fifty times you called him," Wes piped up from the other side of the table. "And obviously, calling him over and over again isn't working. He just had chemo on Saturday. He could just be feeling too sick to talk."

The call goes to voicemail again, so Blaine tosses the phone down onto the table with a soft exclamation of "_Fuck_," and it clatters and slides off onto the floor. He pushes himself to his feet and hesitates angrily, fumblingly, before bending down to pick up the battered phone and storming off with it.

It's not long until he's in his room, slamming the door behind him. He slams his cell down onto the bed, where it bounces and almost flies off the edge.

He can't handle this: the fear that bubble up in him and the anger and absolute _anguish_. He can't handle knowing that his best friend might be hurting, might be dead, might die any day. His entire body feels charged and it can't take all that feeling, all that electricity. He can't stand to keep still for fear that he'll explode or disintegrate or something. He paces jerkily across the floor, pulling his hands into fists.

Tears have, at some point, begun to run down his cheeks and now his face is wet and red, and the tears aren't stopping. He is gasping and sobbing softly as he strides back and forth across the room.

He is only seventeen years old. He is not equipped to deal with this panic and this helplessness. He is not equipped to deal with this heartbreak. He needs Kurt in his life. That boy came barreling in, true to his fashion, and wrapped Blaine up in him until there was no way he could function without _Kurt, Kurt, Kurt._

Blaine doesn't want to admit it, not even to himself, not at a time like this, but he is in love. He's in love with Kurt Hummel.

He can't stand it anymore; he throws himself onto his bed, shoves his face into the pillow, and wails into it. His first real love—the realization of it should come with a stupid grin, with butterflies in his stomach and weightlessness. He should be _happy_. But how can he be happy about this? This is absolutely the worst timing he could have ever had. Kurt really doesn't need to be worrying about Blaine and his _stupid feelings_ and love right now. He needs to focus on himself, on getting better, which is _another thing entirely_—Kurt is so, so sick and he might _die _and then where would Blaine be? Why did he have to fall so hard for someone who might not make it long enough to graduate high school? And then, what if he goes into remission and then it came back, months or years later?

He's in love, but all it feels like to him is a stabbing pain, right in his chest. It doesn't feel like it's supposed to at all.

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><p>Hours later, Blaine is still lying on his bed. He is half-asleep, and his tears have dried on his slightly puffy cheeks. His arms are cradled underneath the pillow his face is smashed into, and his eyes are half-open. He was too exhausted to feel that same sharp agony from earlier and too exhausted to even think of crying anymore. He is just drifting in and out of sleep, the pain reduced to a dull ache radiating through his body.<p>

His phone rings. It's the special ringtone he programmed to play when Kurt calls. In an instant, he is propelling himself off of his bed, landing hard on the floor and shooting out a hand to cut off Katy Perry's tinny singing and choke out, "Hello?"

"Blaine?" Kurt's voice is small and more high-pitched than usual. He sounds so sad and scared, but Blaine can't help the relief that floods through him and makes him sag down to the floor, where he presses his cheek against the hardwood and squeezes his eyes shut—because Kurt _has _to be sort of okay, if he's calling him. He's not dead, anyway; he's not so sick he's incapacitated. That _counts_.

"_Kurt_," he breathes, just basking in the knowledge that his friend is okay. Unfortunately, the relief doesn't last long before the panic catches back up to him, and with it, anger hits him full force. Because there could still be so much wrong, and doesn't Kurt _understand _how crazy he's made himself over these past few days? He pushes himself up onto his knees and half-shouts at him over the phone: "What happened? Why didn't you answer my calls? I've been so—" He pauses, shoving his hand against his brow in order to stop the stinging tears that are gathering. He didn't think he could cry again so soon—his head still throbs from earlier.

"I've been so scared," he finishes in a murmur, his voice cracking.

"I'm _sorry_," Kurt replies, sounding like he, too, is close to tears. "I'm sorry, Blaine, I've been so stupid. I just… I…" He heaves a frustrated sigh and then continues. His voice is steadier this time. "I lost my hair on Saturday morning."

_Oh, fuck_.

"Oh my god, Kurt, I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," the other boy replies, giving a breathy laugh that just sounds too sad and like he is trying too hard. "It started to come out in clumps so I… So my dad helped me shave it all off. I just… I was really upset about it, Blaine. And I didn't want anyone—especially you—to see me."

Blaine isn't an idiot. Sometimes, he can be a little oblivious, but he _knows _this boy, who's become his best friend in such a short time.

Kurt thinks he looks ugly.

Swallowing heavily, Blaine whispers, "I'm sure you still look beautiful." He almost regrets it instantly—he's revealed way too much—but dammit, he _needs to know_. There is no doubt in Blaine's mind that Kurt will still look absolutely gorgeous without hair; now Kurt just needs to believe it.

There is silence from the other end of the phone for a long moment. Then, "Thank you. You… you can come over if you want. Just… don't get disappointed when I don't look as good as you think." He lets out a halfhearted chuckle and Blaine's heart breaks a little.

"I'll be right over."

A minute later, he is stumbling out of his room, straightening his tie and pulling on his coat. He rushes past David, who yells at him as he goes, "Did Kurt call?"

"Yeah," Blaine shouts back absently. Then, just as he is about to turn the corner, he adds as an afterthought, "He's okay."

The drive to Kurt's house is excruciatingly long. He doesn't think he's ever had this much trouble adhering to the speed limit. He also thinks that an hour and forty-five minutes to Lima, sitting in this car with just his thoughts, will make him insane. He fumbles with the knob to turn on the radio, though he really doesn't want to listen. He just wants to be with Kurt. Like, _right the hell now._

Finally, he makes it, and it's dark and he'll never make it back to Dalton in time for curfew, but none of that matters. Kurt is more important.

Burt lets him in with the same tired smile as usual, clapping him gently on the back as he enters the house. "Kurt's upstairs," he says simply.

Blaine mumbles a _thank you _in reply and heads off toward the stairs. Kurt's door is ajar, but he knocks his knuckles softly against it anyway before pushing inside.

The boy is sitting cross-legged on his bed, wearing a pair of his skinny jeans that have become loose enough to be relatively comfortable over the last few weeks, and a dark purple sweater. A cute, chunky knit hat in the same color as the sweater is pulled over his head. Blaine wonders if Kurt has one in every color.

He is doing homework; he is taking some classes online and by correspondence that will transfer to either Dalton or McKinley, when or if he's able to go back. It's math: there's a graphing calculator sitting next to him on the bed. He looks up when Blaine comes in and looks nervous for just a moment before smiling weakly.

"Hi," he whispers.

Blaine just takes a few steps, sinks down onto the mattress, and pulls Kurt into his arms. The thinner boy's body relaxes into his and they just breathe together for a few minutes, homework forgotten.

"I missed you," Kurt murmurs sleepily after a while.

"I missed you too."

There is silence for a few more minutes. Then, Kurt snuggles into Blaine, resting his face in the crook of his neck, and says, "You're so warm."

Blaine chuckles and holds him tighter.

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><p><strong>Don't forget, dear readers: KLAINE NEXT CHAPTER. So stay tuned and keep reading, reviewing, and favoriting. I love you guys!<strong>


	11. Chapter 11

**Okay, obviously, there are a million things wrong with this picture. First, I should be in bed. It's almost one in the morning and I have to get up at six. Why do I keep doing this to myself. Second, it's been forever since I updated. Third, I'VE HAD THIS CHAPTER WRITTEN SINCE BEFORE I PUT UP THE LAST ONE, I THINK. WHY DID I WAIT SO LONG?**

**Anyway, yeah, real Klaine! Just like in the real show... I suck.**

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><p>A half hour later, they are lying next to each other, chatting amiably about things at Dalton and Kurt's recent visit to a New Directions rehearsal. They have already talked about the painful things—in a hushed voice, Kurt related the story of Saturday morning, when his hair started falling out and his dad shaved it. He can still close his eyes and remember the buzz of the razor and the soft brushing of falling hair against his face. More than once, while he told the story, he had to stop talking and focus on holding back tears, squeezing his eyes shut. Blaine would just take Kurt's face in his hands and rub his thumbs softly over his cheeks and his brow bones, resisting the urge to kiss those tense, trembling lips.<p>

_He's sick and upset, Blaine_, he reminded himself. _He doesn't need you trying to make a move_.

Blaine already told Kurt about how he'd spent most of his weekend and Monday in a haze of panic, not knowing if his best friend was okay or dead or if he just didn't want anything to do with him anymore. He said it reluctantly, haltingly, not wanting to make Kurt feel guilty. Because it was over now, and he understood. He wasn't mad. But Kurt looked guilty anyway, whispering, "I'm so sorry," whenever Blaine had to pause, holding his hands tightly.

Now, Kurt is trying to hold in giggles as he imitates Brittany's confused, flat voice and Artie's ghetto slang. And Blaine is laughing in all the right moments and it makes him so, so happy to see Kurt with a smile on his face, but he can't pay too much attention to the story. All he can think about is how beautiful this boy is—even when his features are all made stark and sharp by his weight loss and there are dark circles under his eyes. He is just so stunning, especially when he's happy and he seems _lit from within_—like he's some sort of ethereal being. And Blaine suspects nothing will ever change his mind.

And then he blurts it out, right in the middle of the story: "You're so beautiful, Kurt."

Kurt stops talking and his face kind of falls. He looks hurt as his eyes search Blaine's face for some sort of explanation.

Blaine feels like he shouldn't have said anything at all, he has this sinking feeling in his stomach, but he keeps his mouth shut and waits patiently for Kurt's reaction.

Finally, Kurt takes a deep breath. "I don't get it. Why do you say stuff like that to me?"

"Like… what?"

"Like—that I'm beautiful! And you're always holding my hand and… _singing _to me, but you never…" He heaves a frustrated sigh and says quietly, urgently, "Look, Blaine. I _like you_. As more than a friend. And it's okay if you don't feel the same way, I'm happy with just being friends with you, but… you do these things like paying for my coffee, and you're always so _close _to me, and you hug me and hold my hand… And you don't do that with anyone else. But you've never pursued anything more than that, so I don't _understand_ what I _am_ to you."

Apparently he is done, then, because he stops talking and sets his jaw, breathing heavily, watching Blaine with angry eyes waiting for his response.

"Kurt… I… I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—"

"Oh." That pretty, pale face droops again, wilts like a flower, and Kurt turns away, crossing his arms to hug himself tightly.

"Wait, Kurt, no, that's not what I meant," Blaine pleads, shooting out a desperate hand to seize Kurt's elbow. "Please. Look at me."

Kurt honors the request, turning his big, teary blue eyes on his friend like he is just waiting to be hurt.

"I didn't want to say anything. You're sick and I… didn't feel that I needed to put any pressure on you. But I feel the same way about you."

"You… what?" Kurt has this look of absolute _shock _on his face, like he had never expected this to ever happen, which hurts Blaine's heart a little.

He's been such an idiot—he's loved Kurt for such a long time and is _just_ figuring it out. Meanwhile, Kurt has had to wait for him to finally get his act together. Blaine's surprised he's waited this long.

"I love you," Blaine whispers, eyes roaming over Kurt's face, taking in all the wonderful little nuances of it. This time, he thinks love feels different—it's not the horrible pain from earlier that makes it hard for him to breathe. There's a warm feeling blooming in his chest and spreading through his fingers and toes. It _is _still a little painful, just because it's filling him up so _fully, _but it's the best kind of hurt he's ever felt in his life. He smiles brightly, settling both of his hands on Kurt's soft cheeks.

He's pretty sure _this _is how it's supposed to feel to be in love.

Kurt isn't really responding. He looks stricken—his blue-green eyes are wide and his mouth has fallen open into a little Oshape.

Blaine's grin falters. "Kurt?"

And then the boy's lips press hard together and his eyebrows furrow and his eyes are welling up with tears.

"You haven't even seen me without this stupid hat on," he objects breathily, as if anything more than a whisper will send him over the edge into gut-wrenching sobs. It's probably true.

"How could that ever make me stop loving you?" Blaine asks, genuinely confused. "I don't love you for your _hair_, Kurt."

Unconvinced, the taller boy reaches up and slowly pulls off the hat.

Honestly, it _is _a little jarring—the vast expanse of skin where there used to be rich, chestnut hair seems _wrong _and, not for the first time, Blaine _hates _the disease that's in his friend's body.

But he was right. He looks down at Kurt's eyes, and the boy is crying for real now, pulling in soft gasps and sniffing as tears spill down his cheeks. His gaze, however, is unwavering, trained on Blaine's face for his reaction.

He is still breathtakingly beautiful.

Blaine is crying a little bit himself, now, just because that swelling, warm feeling is back in full force. "I still love you," he assures with a soft smile. "So, so much. And you're still so _gorgeous_, Kurt. I promise."

He strokes his thumb across Kurt's cheek in an attempt to both soothe him and wipe away some of the tears there, and then he leans in and gently presses their lips together. It's a fairly quick, chaste kiss but it makes Blaine feel like his skin and his heart have been lit on fire—in the absolute best way possible. He feels so _alive _and so _happy_. When he pulls away, he is grinning widely, unable to stop it or contain the joy in his body.

But Kurt is just crying harder, squeezing his eyes shut and openly sobbing now.

"Hey," Blaine says, his heart dropping. "Hey, hey. Look at me. I'm sorry."

He is _such an idiot_. Kurt really does _not _need this extra layer of stress—he is already a wreck, emotionally and physically, and this just complicates things and makes everything worse.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Kurt," he finds himself babbling, truly upset and panicked and _angry _at himself. "I'm so stupid, I shouldn't have done that… Do you—do you need me to leave? I can leave, I can just go and ask your dad to come in and I can go—"

"_Blaine_," Kurt manages to interject between the rambling and his own tears. "Just… shut _up _for a minute!"

Instantly, Blaine snaps his mouth shut and just watches his friend with wide eyes, waiting for the rejection. Eventually, Kurt calms himself down, wiping at his eyes. His head is bowed and he whispers, "I'm sorry, I'm just—so overwhelmed."

He looks up and, miraculously, he's _smiling_. Granted, he looks completely exhausted and the smile is tiny. But it's there and it's amazing and so _attractive_.

"I love you, too," Kurt tells Blaine hesitantly, gazing into his eyes. "I have for a long time."

Then he falters. Blaine watches him, concerned, but then Kurt reaches up and pulls the hat back over his bald scalp.

"I can't stand it," he mutters self-consciously. "I don't care what you say, _I _think it's ugly." He pauses. "I don't really like this hat, either. I just get so cold with all the weight I lost, and now, with no insulation of any kind on my head… I needed something that would be really warm."

"I think it's cute," Blaine assures him, leaning in closer to those lips teasingly.

Kurt looks into his eyes adoringly, smiling, and his tears are completely gone. "You would," he says, and it should sound disdainful but it sounds loving instead. "Your fashion sense is a little lacking."

Then Kurt moves closer and _he's _initiating the kiss this time, and it's absolutely _blissful_—more so than the first time because their mouths are slightly open and they stay like that for much longer, moving their lips against each other softly and slowly.

They pull apart after a few moments and are silent for a while, just looking at each other. Blaine is tracing his fingertips over Kurt's skin, blazing a trail from his ears, down his neck, over his shoulder, down his arm, and back up his side to his ear. Kurt is just grinning, looking so completely lovestruck and content.

"So," Kurt finally begins, moving his gaze to watch Blaine's fingers move along their path. "Are we… boyfriends?" Then his eyes flicker up to meet Blaine's hazel ones, staring into them hopefully.

"Do you want to be boyfriends?"

Kurt nods, a little too eagerly, and then blushes furiously. "Yes."

"Then yes. We're boyfriends." Blaine grins harder, and his cheeks are beginning to hurt, but he can't possibly begin to care.

The next day, when he comes to breakfast looking disheveled but _joyful_, beaming at everyone as he greets them, Wes and David share knowing looks behind his back.

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><p><strong>Thanks to everyone who read this for being so patient with me. Working on the next installment! I hope you stick around! And please review!<strong>


	12. Chapter 12

**Awww, yeah, this story definitely lives. I think this chapter is longer than usual—or just longer than the last one. I can't really remember how long the average is for this fic. I don't think there are any special warnings for this chapter.**

**Thank you to anyone who has reviewed, favorited, alerted, etc. And a HUGE thanks to anyone who is still reading this! **

**By the way, a creepy thing: before I uploaded this chapter, the story had 11 chapters and 111 reviews. You're welcome for THAT useless tidbit.**

**Anyway, in this one we have NEW DIRECTIONS. And WARBLERS. And a (very) little Klaine. And Burt being a sweet dad.**

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><p>A few days later, Kurt goes into the hospital again for tests. By now, he is accustomed enough to the prick of a needle that he barely notices it in the crook of his elbow.<p>

When the results come back, Burt takes the call and listens intently for a few minutes, occasionally uttering an acknowledging grunt or hum. The leukemic cells are fewer, but the chemo didn't have as much of an effect as Dr. Miele hoped they would. They will start the second round of chemo as planned, but they will have to find a way to adjust the medication or the dosage so it's more aggressive.

Kurt doesn't like the idea of a more aggressive chemo regimen. He kind of had the crap kicked out of him by the _first _round. He complains when his dad tells him the news, but receives only a glare in return.

For now, though, he has almost a month before he needs to worry about it.

Unfortunately, as he soon learns, he has plenty more to worry about. The prednisone has weakened his immune system to the point that he's more susceptible to illness than usual. On Friday of that same week, he is struck by a nasty cold, cutting off his plans to hang out with his girls. His dad frantically drags him to see Dr. Miele, and, after a small amount of deliberation, she decides that it's nothing to worry about at this time. His immune system is still strong enough that he'll be able to fight off the minor infections he gets by himself.

It still sucks, he decides, as he lies in bed amid a veritable sea of used tissues, trying to fight the impulse to cough until his lungs just come right out of him. He's curled up under the blankets, holding a box of tissues to his chest, and his dad has forbidden visitors. Kurt had insisted he was being overly cautious, but his usual persuasiveness has been lessened a bit by the sore throat and stuffy nose distorting his voice. Burt didn't budge.

His phone lights up and buzzes cheerily on his bedside table. Groaning at the thought of having to emerge from his nest of blankets, he pokes his head out and gropes around on the table until he can wrap his fingers around the phone.

**From: Blaine**

**11:16 AM**

**How are you feeling?**

Kurt retreats back under the blankets to type his reply.

**To: Blaine**

**11:16 AM**

**Terrible. I miss you.**

He closes his eyes and the phone vibrates again. He is tempted to ignore it and just read it later, as his head is getting heavy with sleep, but it just continues to buzz. He's getting a call, not a text.

"Hello?" he whines into the receiver, disappointed at being pulled away from a potential nap.

"Hey," Blaine's voice greets him softly. He sounds a little breathless. "I wanted to sing you something."

"Ohh, okay."

So Blaine clears his throat and begins to sing—not in his usual way, not like he's singing to a big audience. His voice is quiet and a little rough and it's just perfect—it's a little concert just for them. It's private and beautiful.

"_You are my sweetest downfall. I loved you first, I loved you first. Beneath the sheets of paper lies my truth. I have to go, I have to go. Your hair was long when we first met._

"_Samson went back to bed, not much hair left on his head. Ate a slice of Wonderbread and went right back to bed. And the history books forgot about us, and the Bible didn't mention us, and the Bible didn't mention us, not even once._

"_You are my sweetest downfall. I loved you first, I loved you first. Beneath the stars came falling on our hats. But they're just old light, they're just old light. Your hair was long when we first met. _

"_Samson came to my bed, told me that my hair was red, told me I was beautiful and came into my bed. Oh, I cut his hair myself one night, a pair of dull scissors in the yellow light. And he told me that I'd done alright, and he kissed me 'til the morning light, the morning light. And he kissed me 'til the morning light._

"_Samson went back to bed, not much hair left on his head. He ate a slice of Wonderbread and went right back to bed. Oh, we couldn't bring the columns down, yeah, we couldn't destroy a single one. And the history books forgot about us, and the Bible didn't mention us, not even once._

"_You are my sweetest downfall. I loved you first."_

Kurt smiles, tucking his face into his pillow, and says teasingly, "Blaine, Regina Spektor wrote that song about her friend who _died_ of cancer. And all that talk about 'not much hair left on his head'? _So _insensitive."

Picking up on his tone, Blaine chuckles lightly. "I thought you'd enjoy it."

"It was breathtaking, thank you," Kurt sighs sleepily. "I love that song." He takes a moment to blow his nose and finishes with a loud, long yawn.

"I won't keep you up anymore," his boyfriend murmurs. "Call me whenever, okay? I love you."

Kurt responds with a lethargic giggle and says, "I love you, too."

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><p>He's feeling well enough the next week to drive to McKinley to visit rehearsal. His body is thanking him for the break from chemo and the cold's really mostly gone—his throat is just a little scratchy, still. It doesn't hurt, but he suspects it will if he overexerts it. He's still pretty tired and achy, too, in general. So he'll be doing a lot of sitting and a lot of unobtrusive, easy background singing today. It doesn't matter. The thought of just being there makes him grin in anticipation.<p>

He plans his arrival for fifteen minutes after the start of the period so the hallways will be clear. He doesn't want to risk a run-in with anyone who's stupid, large and hateful. It works perfectly; he encounters no one. He stops just before the door, adjusting his thick, knit hat over his head. Today it's a rich burgundy, which, of course, matches the rest of his outfit impeccably. He quickly makes sure it's pulled down almost to his eyebrows, over the nape of his neck, and over his ears so that just the lobes are sticking out. It feels extremely weird still to have the fabric of a hat sliding over a bare scalp—sort of like after the one time he tried shaving his legs out of curiosity and the surface of his newly-bare skin was uncomfortably sensitive to every touch.

Pushing his inane thoughts aside, he opens the door. They haven't gotten started yet, unsurprisingly; Mr. Shue is nowhere to be found and there is a general sort of controlled chaos around the room caused by the chatter coming from everyone's mouths. He clears his throat, smiling nervously at them and making his way to the center of the room.

Everything goes silent for approximately one second before Mercedes, Rachel, and Tina simultaneously squeal; this has the effect of the breaking of a dam and suddenly the voices are starting again, all going at the same time in discord, but all directed at him, expressing to him. As one unit, the glee club rushes over to him. Rachel reaches him first, pulling him into a tight hug, and Mercedes adds herself, squeezing both of them together. Everyone else waits in a circle around him to give him their own greetings. There are lots of hugs and pats on the back. Mike, the last one to get his turn, is so happy to see him that he lifts him up and twirls him a little.

Kurt is laughing a little when he gets set down, adjusting his hat. Behind him, someone clears his throat. He whirls around to see who it is and Mr. Shue is standing there with his arms crossed around a folder of music and a wide smile on his face.

"Hello, Mr. Shue," he greets, breathless with both fatigue and the excitement of being back in this room with these people.

"Hey, Kurt," the teacher says warmly. "Glad you could join us. Is everyone ready to rehearse?"

A cheer goes out across the room that is much more enthusiastic than usual; the kids' energies are fueled by Kurt's presence. For months, they have missed him, and for weeks, they have worried about him. They've felt guilt over his problems with Karofsky and they've felt guilt about being unable to help him conquer the cancerous cells in his blood. It rejuvenates them to see him, happy and alive and _here_.

Rehearsal goes oddly well; they are a little unfocused, with side-conversations and too much excitement, but all the extra energy they have funnels into this wonderful productivity. Kurt grins and sings along, sitting while his friends dance around him.

That night, he is exhausted in the best way possible and, despite the lingering achiness in his body, he sleeps uninterrupted through to the morning.

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><p>Saturday of the next week, Kurt's phone rings in the middle of the Top Model marathon he orchestrated with the help of his DVR. Absently, he picks it up, eyes glued on his favorite contestant as she poses for a series of headshots with leaves and twigs woven into her hair and makeup artfully smeared onto her face like dirt.<p>

"Hello?"

"Kurt? Hey, it's David!"

Kurt pauses the TV. "Hey, David, how are you? What's up?"

"I'm doing great, Kurt. Listen, we're having a get-together today at my place. Did you want to come?"

"Yeah," Kurt blurts out breathlessly. "That sounds great. Your place is in Westerville, right?"

"Yeah—are you—can you—I mean, someone can pick you up if you need."

"No, no, I should be fine driving myself. If you don't mind me being a bit tired. I wouldn't want to make anyone go so far out of their way. What time should I be there? Can you text me your address?"

"Are you sure you don't want someone to pick you up, Kurt? Anyone would be happy to do it. Blaine can give you a ride."

"No, I'm sure. I'm perfectly capable of making it there myself."

"Okay, then. See you around five?"

"I'll be there. See you later, David."

"Bye, Kurt."

Top Model marathon forgotten, Kurt launches himself off of the couch and heads to his room to start preparing.

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><p>Kurt arrives at the party wearing another one of his hats, though he hasn't pulled it down quite so far as he used to. His hair has grown in a little, covering his head in a soft fuzz so that he doesn't look like some freakish q-tip, but not enough that he feels comfortable debuting it in all its glory. He's also pulled on his favorite outfit, the one with the jeans that never fail to make him look fabulous. It's unavoidable that Blaine occasionally sees him looking less than his best, and he's more or less fine with that, but if he's going to be going into public and seeing friends, he needs to look <em>good<em>.

David answers the door and welcomes him with a huge smile and a tight hug. "Come on in, man, everyone's really excited to see you. Blaine's here, too."

Kurt follows him inside, a little nervous, to where the Warblers are sitting around on the floor and on the couches and armchairs that are set around the room. There's a movie on the screen, but they look up and grin and shout when he comes in. Most of them jump up to give him hugs just like the one he's just received from David or a pat on the back. Blaine is last, pulling him into a hug and finishing with a peck on the cheek, and he ushers Kurt over to the plush chair he's been sitting in.

"Here, Kurt, have my seat," he says, and Kurt, a little achy, gratefully sits. Blaine happily takes the spot in front of him on the floor, leaning back against the chair next to the legs of his boyfriend, who runs his fingers through his curls.

They watch the movie distractedly, carrying on conversations amongst themselves and snacking and laughing. After the movie's over they still talk, loudly, goofing around and playing games and sometimes breaking into song.

When it comes time for some of the guys to leave, Kurt begins to realize that he is very, very tired.

"I don't think I can drive myself home," he admits sheepishly.

Blaine squeezes his hand, and David says, "Some of the guys are staying the night. You can stay, too, if you want, and you can drive home in the morning."

"Yeah, okay," Kurt agrees, and goes into the next room to call his dad.

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><p>"Absolutely not, Kurt."<p>

Shocked, the teen lets his mouth hang open while he searches for words. "Dad, _why not_?" he finally manages.

"I want you here."

"Wha—I don't understand. What's the problem with me just staying the night at a friend's house? I've done it a million times!"

"Yeah, buddy, you did it when you weren't sick!"

The confusion gives way to anger, white hot. Kurt curls his free hand into a fist, screws up his face, and snaps, "So what are you saying? Since I'm sick I'm, what? An invalid? I can't handle a night away from home?"

Burt calms down, instantly contrite. "No, that's not what I meant—"

Kurt, too fired up to stop, interrupts him. "I'm not _weak, Dad_, I don't need you to tuck me into bed every night."

"Kurt—please. I'm sorry. I just meant—It's not that I don't think _you _can handle it. I know, I know you're not weak. I just… I just get scared, son."

Kurt remains silent.

"It's not fair to you, I know. It just scares me to know that you're not here, with me, so I can make sure you're okay. I know I can't be around all the time, I can't always help you with everything, but that doesn't make me stop wanting to try… Especially now."

After a few moments, all Kurt can think to murmur is, "I'm sorry, Dad. I'm sorry."

"Hey," Burt responds, voice forceful again. "Don't you ever think you need to feel sorry about any of this, okay? It's not your fault you got sick, buddy. All the rest of this crap—me feeling scared and all that—that just comes with it."

"I'm scared too," Kurt admits, playing with a loose thread on his sleeve. "I… I _do_… need your help with this, Dad. I wouldn't be able to do this alone. So… thank you."

"Just doing my job, kiddo. Listen, you stay at David's. You're right, you shouldn't be trying to drive home if you're too tired. Stay, have fun with your friends, get a good rest, and then come home tomorrow. Sound good?"

"Yeah. I'll see you tomorrow."

Kurt awkwardly shuffles back into the next room, where the rest of the guys are pretending they didn't hear him shouting. Blaine smiles at him, shy and encouraging, understanding and loving.

"It's a go," is all Kurt says, and Jeff woops exuberantly and pulls him over to the couch to play a round of Call of Duty. Blaine moves to sit next to him, and their thighs touch softly.

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><p><strong>Again, many thank yous for reading! Please, please review—I love to hear back from all of you!<strong>


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